


The Grave

by Straight_Outta_Hobbiton



Series: The Next Steps [1]
Category: Misfits (TV 2009), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Claustrophobia, Crushed to death, Gen, Immobilization (not in the sexy way), Mild Gore, Post-Apocalypse, Secret Brothers, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton/pseuds/Straight_Outta_Hobbiton
Summary: The world ends, and the Academy goes west in its aftermath.





	The Grave

Nathan screams his throat bloody. There is nothing but pain and darkness, the constant crush of concrete on forever healing flesh and bone. He screams, he cries, he whimpers, he screams again, but no one comes. He is caught between blood loss, total organ shutdown, suffocation, starvation, dehydration, and just plain old agony. His mind pulses between the black of death and the black of being buried alive and he doesn’t know which is better.

 

He has no idea how long he’s been here. Maybe he’s actually died, this time. Maybe this is hell, and Nathan’s just too stupid to figure it out. God knows he’d deserve it.

 

Christ, why hasn’t he died? He should be dead— he hasn’t been immortal in _years,_ for fuck’s sake. Why, why, _why—_

 

There’s a sound, like rocks shifting just to the left of him. Nathan hasn’t been able to turn his head since he woke up like this, hasn’t even tried in ages, but there’s a sound, something besides his own choking breaths. His left is mostly undamaged— he can wiggle his fingers, at least— so he starts to move, scratching at the stone with what’s left of his nails as he begins to shout, shoving against the rock pinning his skull in place.

 

“I’m here! I’m here! _Please,_ I’m here! I’m _here!”_

 

There’s another sound, then another, like rocks being shifted more quickly than before. Nathan tries harder, but his voice has long since broken, his body useless in its half-healed, ever-dying state. But it doesn’t matter, because the sounds he hears are moving closer, deeper, and suddenly, there’s light.

 

It’s a whole new agony, Nathan quickly finds. He shrieks his protest, unable to turn his face away or shield his eyes, and then there is a shadow over him, the stone pinning his head in place finally shoved away as two large hands dig into the torn flesh of his face.

 

“Close your eyes, Nathan!”

 

Nathan knows that voice. He knows that voice like he knows his own.

 

 _“Klaus.”_ The name comes out in a whimper, half-pain, half-relief.

 

Hot breath ghosts his face, and even that is pain.

 

“It’s going to hurt to pull you out,” Klaus says. “It’ll be over soon.”

 

Nathan doesn’t say anything, taking a moment to appreciate his newfound freedom by nodding once.

 

Klaus is right, of course— it’s absolutely _excruciating._ On the plus side, though, Nathan dies.

 

Hopefully this time he’ll have a chance to heal before he wakes up again.

  


*.*

  


Klaus tells them strange things as he extracts the broken body from the wreckage of the Las Vegas Detention Center. He tells them things like, _this is my brother_ and, _he’ll be fine in a few hours,_ as if the pulp of a man in his arms could possibly be either of those things.

 

Luther doesn’t argue, though, and neither does anyone else. They don’t have the strength to argue, anymore; months in a desert wasteland of bodies and dust will do that to any family, even one with as much shit to sort through as theirs.

 

They set up camp in the remains of a pawn shop across the street, with big open windows that still give them an eyeline of where Klaus has set up vigil over the body. He doesn’t pray— none of them pray, they never have— but bowed as he is over the corpse he’s calling Nathan Young, skin tacky with blood and lit only by one of the dozens of candles Vanya has taken to collecting since she woke up to the consequences of her emotional breakdown, Diego can’t help but see religion.

 

Hell, for all they know, Klaus _is_ praying. His powers aren’t like anything that Diego remembers from when they were kids. Five is under the impression his abilities might be as limitless as Vanya’s, in the right environment, evolving and adapting every time there’s even a chance that they might be well and truly fucked.

 

Klaus is the one that saved them, Diego can’t help but remember every time he looks at him. Whatever he did, it kept them safe from the heat that scorched the world around them. He’s not just their junkie brother, and he never has been— he’s something they’ve never really bothered to understand.

 

The apocalypse has left Diego with a lot of time to think about his brothers and sisters. While there’s a level of him that’s always understood their relationships were far from normal, where he once had the welcome distraction of his work and his work, now, there’s nothing but supplies, desert, ruins, and his family, and there’s only so much time Diego can think about supplies before he wants to throw himself off a cliff, because it’s all pointless, it’s fucking pointless—

 

— And, we’re getting off track.

 

Seriously, though, Klaus has been getting weird in his efforts to figure out what it is exactly he can do. Diego remembers him reading all sorts of things when they were kids— Necronomicon, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Revelations, not to mention an ungodly amount of grimoires— but this time, it’s different. He isn’t reading, anymore— or, he isn’t _just_ reading.

 

He’s… collecting things. _Tools,_ Allison calls them, like Diego’s knives, or Vanya’s violin, tucked safely away in Luther’s cart. A deck of Tarot cards, decorated in watercolor fairies and flowers. A decorative letter-opener with a handle shaped like a human skull, sharpened to a lethal point. Beads, crosses, pendants, and rings that clatter with every movement, every shrug of his shoulders or turn of his head. His eyes are always ringed with black, and new tattoos have appeared on his chest and neck, courtesy of a needle, ink, and a a silver-backed mirror pilfered from Allison’s bags.

 

It had once been explained, when Diego was very young but not so young he couldn’t eavesdrop, that Diego’s abilities required a conduit through which to work, a physical manifestation of his intent. Now, Diego isn’t certain that Klaus needs tools, exactly, but maybe there’s something to be said for a lucky rabbit’s foot. Sometimes, things only work because people think they work.

 

The Placebo Effect. That’s what it’s called.

 

Either way, Klaus looks like some kind of fucked up priest in the middle of some sacred death rite, and it’s kind of freaking Diego out.

 

“Maybe he’s finally snapped.”

 

Diego doesn’t jump. He doesn’t— he just… turns to look very quickly.

 

Five arches an eyebrow, arms crossed as he peers down at Diego with tired amusement. It’s warm enough now that Five hasn’t bothered with his usual button-up, his narrow shoulders bare to the wind tugging at his shoulder-length curls. He needs to cut his hair, soon.

 

“He snapped when Dave died,” Diego says. “And didn’t come back.”

 

Five sighs.

 

“He’s getting worse,” he says. “You see it, don’t you?”

 

Of course he does. Diego is the only one Klaus even speaks to, most days, too wrapped up in whatever it is that has him compulsively straightening his spine and adjusting the strap of the M16 he insists on carrying despite the fact that _they are the only ones left._

 

Diego measures his words.

 

“When we pass through these places, the bodies are mostly gone,” he says, his words slow and careful. “All we see is concrete and dust. Klaus sees all that, and he sees the people, too. That’s… that’s gotta be something terrible.”

 

Klaus showed him his sketchbook once, when they were kids and still shared things like that. He’d been a talented artist— Diego couldn’t sleep for weeks, after he’d dared to look. It was… gruesome, and they’d only been ten.

 

“Nathan Young was a listed associate of Klaus’, in dad’s notes,” Five says, following Diego’s gaze. “The last anyone heard of him, he’d been locked up for screwing around with a casino… according to Dad, they shared a birth mother.”

 

Diego stiffens.

 

“You— you knew why he wanted to come here?” he asks, frowning at his brother. “And you didn’t tell us?”

 

Five shrugs.

 

“It’s hard to believe everyone’s dead,” he says. “When I found you all, the first place I went was Vanya’s— I found her listed in Pogo’s address book. Eventually, I figured out she had a concert, so I went there.” He sighs. “I figured it didn’t do any harm, the travelling. A destination can be a purpose, sometimes, and you needed something to do while I worked… I figure it’s only a matter of time before Allison asks to go home.”

 

Diego would’ve bristled at Five’s nonchalant admission six months ago, but that was when he still had the energy to be angry.

 

“Are you turning in for the night?” he asks instead, glancing up at Five.

 

“Not yet, I think,” Five admits. “Do you mind the company?”

 

“Hey, do what you want. I’m just keeping an eye out.”

 

“Yes, I admit, I’m rather curious myself.” Five drags over a dusty, antique stool and sits. “Klaus hasn’t shown any interest in corpses before.”

 

Diego feels himself cringe.

 

“You think something’s going to happen?” he asks, looking back to Klaus.

 

“Maybe. I think Klaus thinks something is going to happen, though, and that’s more important.” There’s the flick of a lighter, and the smell of burning tobacco.

 

Diego wrinkles his nose. Klaus’ habits have rubbed off on the others, Five and Vanya in particular. Apparently lung cancer isn’t a thing to really worry about at the end of the world.

 

“Klaus was listed in Dad’s logs as having accessed several databases I never managed to crack,” Five says after a moment of nothing but the quiet inhale/exhale of smoke. “When they computers still worked, anyway. Dad gave him clearance to access the files on his genetic research for the Academy.”

 

“... When?”

 

“2013, sometime. After he met Nathan, I think.”

 

Diego opens his mouth, but before he can form the words, Five goes pale, his eyes fixed on Klaus.

 

No, not on Klaus— when Diego turns to look, Klaus isn’t alone. There’s— the body, he’s holding the body to his chest, except the body isn’t a body, it’s alive, clawing at his back as it weeps into his shoulder.

 

“Did… did he just bring someone back from the dead?”

 

“I don’t know.” Five pushes himself to his feet. “Let’s go ask him.”


End file.
